Applewood (Book 2): Fledge

by Myers, Brendan P.

  “It was my first season with the carnival,” she said. “I was only ten years old, but of course my body was a spry sixty! Mother made all the arrangements. She had four other kids to feed and not a lot of money. My dad was already gone. I don’t blame her, though. Don’t you ever think that I blame her!” She squeezed his hand. Dugan squeezed back. She went on.

  “Anyway, the boy showed up one day out of the blue, kinda the same way you did. Nothing as dramatic as jumping a train, mind you. I guess it was somewhere in South Carolina I first saw him. I have no idea where Ben found him, and I never asked. I figured that maybe his people dropped him off one day the same way mine done to me. But I do remember the first time I saw William. He was real handsome, had eyes that could look into your very soul.” She squeezed his hand and smiled. “Kinda like your eyes.”

  He returned the smile and looked away shyly as she went on.

  “I guess you could say I had a crush on him. He was the first one I remember having more than girlish feelings for, anyway. But he hated what he was. I knew that much. He tried pretending to be something different, tried to be . . . something that he wasn’t. And that’s what finally got him in trouble . . .” She stopped to murmur, “I’m thirsty. Dear God, I’m so thirsty.”

  Dugan sprang to his feet and grabbed a towel. After running it under cool water in the small sink, he brought it over and placed it gently to her lips. When the sucking movement stopped, he took it from her mouth and ran it gently along her brow and cheeks before setting it aside. He took her hand again and waited.

  “We was down in deep Georgia for a ten-day stint near Athens, where William took a shine to this local girl, seemed like from the first day we got there. Course we all knew it was a bad idea no matter what you are, ‘cause you never mix with the locals. All of us told him that, Rudy most of all. But that boy was stubborn! Lemme tell you. Wouldn’t listen to no one. He didn’t care about the gossip or that everyone knew about them until the night the girl didn’t come home. Her people went out lookin’ for her. They found her somewhere in the woods. She was naked and beaten to a pulp. Barely alive. But even with all that, it was the bite marks that done the boy in.”

  She paused again for another spasm before going on.

  “Turns out that damn fool girl was the mayor’s daughter. The next mornin’, him and a bunch of townsfolk came by to have it out with Ben. Now, Ben can be a fair and kind man, but he doesn’t let nothin’ get in the way of his business. He promised the mayor the boy would be dealt with. Rumor was he cut a big old check too, to pay for the girl’s medical expenses and whatnot. I expect that’s the part he hated most. After the mayor and his boys left with a big ol’ check in their hand, Ben called in Buck and told him to deal with it.”

  Dugan leaned in close and hung on every word.

  “Course, big brave Buck waited ‘til just before the sun went down to come get him. We all talked that day about moving him, maybe putting him someplace where Buck couldn’t find him ‘til things blew over. Poor Gunther was a wreck about the whole thing. But Rudy . . . well. Rudy wouldn’t hear any of it. He had warned the boy time and again. As far as he was concerned, the boy had made his bed and now had to lie in it. But even Rudy didn’t expect what was about to happen. You gotta believe that. Rudy would never have allowed it to happen if he could have stopped it. You do believe that, don’t you?”

  Her eyes pleaded. Dugan nodded. He believed it with all his heart.

  “So that afternoon, we was all just sitting around waiting for it. None of us saw it before it was too late. What Buck had in his hand, I mean. The door flew open. Buck walked into this very trailer and threw up the bench seat. The boy was still asleep, but barely. It was just after dusk. Seemed like on purpose Buck drug him out of there right at that time while he was in some kind of in between period, like half asleep and half awake. He coulda done it any time of the day, if that’s what he was going to do. But I think he wanted William to know what was gonna happen to him, and it seemed like Buck knew that was the best time to do it. Do you know what I mean?”

  Dugan nodded. He knew exactly what she meant. Her voice got weaker as she went on.

  “Buck had a couple of his boys standin’ outside, passin’ around a jug and carryin’ lanterns waitin’ for the show. Buck drug the boy out the trailer and down the steps and threw him onto the ground. Gunther followed them out and started screaming. But I stayed right where I was, and through the doorway I saw the boy’s legs start to shake and move like he was coming to. Rudy started to get up, but I put my hand out to hold him back. I figured what was done was done, and there wasn’t nothin’ any of us could do about it now. And there, in the shadows reflected in the lantern light that was dancin’ on the trailer opposite, I watched Buck raise the stake to that boy’s chest and then heft a hammer to drive it on home. The boy’s legs kicked once or twice and then he was gone. After that, all I remember is Gunther’s screams.”

  She went quiet. The boy continued holding her hand, but his mind was a thousand miles away. When he looked down again, he saw she was asleep. He sat there a while longer, recalling the sharp pain in his chest when he put on the old costume. He remembered seeing the careful stitching on the front of the shirt that was evidence of a repair. He suspected now that somewhere on the back opposite there would be another. Buck wasn’t the type to leave anything to chance. He would have driven it all the way through. And though he knew all along what Big Ben had meant by his question, at the time, he didn’t know why he had asked it. Can you control yourself, boy?

  Dugan wondered what it would be like to suffer the same fate, to feel splintered wood burst through your heart, and shuddered. Like the lust for blood and rage against the human, it seemed to him that fear of the stake had been imprinted deep within his very being. But sometimes, within his waking nightmares, it was him that was doing the staking. He hadn’t spent much time thinking about that because it made no sense at all. The stake was the mortal enemy of his kind. Anyway, it was just a nightmare. It had nothing to do with him.

  Before letting go of the thought, he recalled that in those nightmares, he had used a brightly colored wooden mallet of some kind. Putting those thoughts out of his head, he sat there a while longer listening to his friend’s steadily weakening heart.

  3

  After the debacle in the Arizona desert, Arthur flew back to D.C. to deliver the bad news in person. Therefore, he was more than surprised to be greeted with both a cheery smile and a dismissive wave of the hand.

  “Couldn’t be helped,” the old man said. “Sounds like you did everything by the book. Anyway, how’s the Jacksonville situation shaping up? Oh, and it seems that Ecuador may very well take us up on our services.”

  From their conversation, Arthur sensed the old man was almost relieved the plan had gone wrong. For himself, he was simply relieved to discover his career might still be on track. You couldn’t argue that it helped being the son of the CEO, but it offered no assurance that he himself would someday occupy the big chair. After leaving Atlas, he drove to his next appointment.

  His private school education, years of military service, and family background, had all provided him with a network of his own information resources. And if the smiling crackpot of a CIA agent wouldn’t give him the whole story, he could always find someone that would.

  Though unfamiliar with the seedy neighborhood by the banks of the Potomac where his contact insisted they meet, he managed to find the place all right. Parking the rental a few streets over, he walked through a back alley and entered via the rear entrance as instructed. It took him a moment to become accustomed to the darkness, but from across the room he saw the man he was scheduled to meet ensconced in a corner booth.

  “Eric. Good to see you again,” Arthur said, sliding into the booth while extending his hand in friendly greeting to the most senior aide to the vice president of the United States. Like so many of the VP’s trusted aides, Eric Crocker had worked for him a long time, had been with him
when he served as U.S. Envoy to China and later, during his tenure as Director of the CIA.

  The crew cut man sitting opposite did not greet him with the same enthusiasm.

  “This is it, John,” he said, spitting out the words. “No more. You’ve played your last chit with me. After this, we’re square.”

  Arthur smiled and nodded. “Of course, Eric, of course! But can’t two old friends get together for a drink? By the way, how is Eric Junior?”

  The aide’s face reddened as if slapped. He glared at Arthur with disgust, but the comment had done what he intended. It was a less than subtle reminder from Arthur that there were plenty of chits left between them. It also told him in no uncertain terms that even after today, Eric Crocker would come when called.

  The waitress came over. Arthur ordered a Heineken, Eric a Gin and Tonic. Arthur noted there were already two empty glasses in front of Eric, and if they were any indication, this would be his third. That was good. When the beer arrived, Arthur sent the waitress back for a glass of his own before once again looking at the man across from him.

  “Look,” he began smoothly. “I’m not here to bust your balls or remind you of anything you owe me. In fact, you might be pleased to know I’m not here to ask you to do anything at all. I just need to know some things.”

  The vice presidential aide took a long sip before relaxing a little, seemingly relieved that at least this time, he wouldn’t be leaving with any homework. He even seemed to perk up a bit.

  “What can I help you with?” he asked.

  Arthur thought a moment. He wasn’t sure where to begin, but he’d used Eric enough to know that conversations with him on sensitive topics were always a slow dance. He settled on something generic.

  “Oh, I don’t know. To start, I’ve heard some things about, shall we say, some unorthodox plans the administration may have with regard to dealing with the communist threat. Now, I know what they’re saying publicly. What I’d like to know is, what are they saying in private?”

  Eric smiled. “Exact same things, my friend. Exact same things. I mean, you heard the crap he was saying throughout the campaign, right? I’m telling you, the guy is crazy. He might even be senile. But I know this much. He means every word he says.”

  Eric took another swallow before going on. Not that Arthur himself wasn’t motivation enough, but alcohol always seemed to loosen Eric’s tongue. He leaned forward conspiratorially, glancing around the shabby interior before going on in a hushed whisper.

  “They’re talking about scrapping the ABM treaty. Can you believe that? The one thing that’s kept nukes from landing in America’s swimming pools all these years and he wants to scrap it. I hear other stuff too, talk about putting nukes in Europe and laser beams in space and some kinda missile shield. Real Johnny Quest type stuff. What’s more, he’s funding it. You won’t see it in the Congressional Record or in audits from OMB, but believe me, these crackpot schemes are gonna get all the money they need, and then some.”

  Arthur suppressed his frown. He was already quite familiar with off-the-books funding of government operations. In fact, he and his agency were Exhibit A in that department. But if what Arthur was beginning to suspect about their plans for the Dugan boy were true, the man seated across from him truly had no idea the depravity of this administration’s crackpot schemes.

  “Meanwhile,” Eric continued, “they got this crazy guy over at NSA, a lieutenant colonel for Christ’s sake! Guy’s a true believer. Seems he has the ears of some very important people too. You didn’t hear this from me, but as you and I sit here today, he’s making plans to set up a private army down in Honduras to have it out with the commies in Nicaragua. We’re doing all kinds of stuff over in Afghanistan now too. Those are American missiles knocking Russian helicopters out of the sky.”

  He went quiet and looked wistful before adding, “I tell you, we could have had it all. We could’ve won the whole shebang if not for who paid for a frigging microphone in frigging Nashua, New Hampshire. If not for that, it would be our guy in there and not some B-movie actor playing John Wayne.”

  Arthur nodded. Still, while this was all interesting and helpful, it didn’t answer his primary question: even setting aside what he was, of what possible interest to national security was a fourteen-year-old boy? He tried a blunter approach.

  “Tell me about the DCI,” Arthur asked. “Where does he fit into all this?”

  Eric smiled knowingly. “He’s the puppet master. The guy with all the power. That LC I told you about? The two of them meet all the time. Even I don’t know most of what’s going on. I hear rumors, though. Stepped up use of intelligence assets. Off the book black ops. Stuffing embassies with CIA in the guise of State Department personnel. I hear in some cases, they wanna use the families of the ambassador himself for God knows what. But one thing’s for sure. The gloves are coming off all over the world.”

  “I’ve heard that, “Arthur answered, looking down at his watch. It was getting late. Reaching into his wallet, he threw a twenty down on the table, figuring it was the least he could do. Before closing his wallet, he glanced into it and something else occurred.

  Leaning back again, he removed from his wallet a photograph of the Dugan boy he’d taken from the file. He’d never quite been able to rid himself of the nagging suspicion he’d seen him before, and carried it around to look at sometimes to see if it jogged his memory. Handing the photo across the table, he asked, “You seen this kid before?”

  It was his sixth grade photo, one of the few that showed him smiling, taken before the death of his mother and whatever other horrors the boy encountered in later years. The best that Arthur hoped was that Eric might say the kid looked like some kid from a TV show or a movie. The answer was more surprising.

  “That’s Stetson’s kid, ain’t it?” Eric said, handing the photo back.

  The tumblers in Arthur’s head fell into place. That was the answer! He’d traveled to D.C. often enough during the last election cycle to have the kid’s face permanently imprinted into his brain.

  Robert Stetson was the popular two-term Republican governor of Virginia who had lost a senatorial bid in a bitter primary fight the year before. Like Arthur himself, he came from a blueblood family. It was at the tail end of the bloody primary, while the mud was flying high and low, that Stetson blanketed the airwaves with a commercial featuring his pretty wife and teenage son.

  The commercial highlighted his telegenic family, but stressed the fact that the awkward-looking boy was just the latest in a long line of Robert Stetson’s, all of whom had engaged in one form of public service or another, dating back to the founding of the Republic. His opponent called it shameful exploitation. Enough of the public apparently agreed.

  Arthur glanced at the photo one last time before putting it in his wallet, satisfied at least that this particular mystery was solved. “Yup. That’s exactly who it is,” he said. “Just wanted to be sure.” Reaching his hand across the table, he thanked Eric for his time.

  Walking back to his car, he contemplated what Eric had told him. On the face of it, he hadn’t heard anything he didn’t already know. But long experience had taught that ruminating over intelligence often yielded answers that weren’t apparent at first glance. With that in mind, he wasn’t prepared to declare the meeting a total waste of time.

  Arthur had one last appointment that afternoon before his flight back to Oklahoma City. He considered it his most important of the day.

  He drove from the south side neighborhood where the bar was located, filled with drugs and gang violence, across town to its polar opposite, the cloistered campus of St. Joseph’s Academy, where this afternoon, his son C.J. was slated to play in a lacrosse match. After going through security, he parked next to ivy-covered dormitories before wandering over to the playing fields of his youth. He heard the shouts and laughter of young boys long before he saw them.

  He went to the sidelines to say hello to the Brothers that were watching the game, some of th
em old enough to remember when he himself was a student there. All remarked how proud he must be of his son, and he was. There was no doubt about that. He flashed back a moment to the picture in his wallet and a shiver ran up his spine, reflecting back on all the dangers life could hold.

  4

  After kissing the sleeping Alice one last time, Dugan could put it off no longer and began dressing for the evening performance. While putting on his makeup, he heard a soft knock upon the door. He opened it to see Mary and her daughter Emma. Mary said they would sit with Alice for the next few hours. Dugan nodded, whispering quietly it wouldn’t be much longer. Mary reached out and hugged him, promising that whatever happened, Alice wouldn’t face it alone.

  Dugan nodded again before turning away to hide his tears. He told himself they weren’t for Alice, and they weren’t. She had asked him not to cry for her. The tears he shed now were simply because of the extraordinary kindness of these people. It had become obvious to him that some sort of schedule had been arranged. For the past few days, all the women of the carnival had spent time at Alice’s bedside. More than that, some of the gruffest and most grizzled of the old carnies, whom Dugan himself avoided like the plague, spent time by her side.

  When Mary let him go, he glanced down to see that Emma’s usually smiling face was deadly earnest. He asked if she’d like to take a walk. After she nodded, Dugan looked at Mary and watched her nod gratefully before he took the girl’s tiny hand in his.

  The two walked together to the dumpster. Concerned about her silence, about halfway there he asked, “What are you thinking about?”

  She didn’t answer at first. He looked down to see her working something out in her head until finally she blurted it out.

  “Alice is going to die, isn’t she?”

  Dugan thought about his answer for a moment before nodding. There was no getting around it.

  “Yes, she is,” he said. “Maybe even tonight. But remember, she’s been awfully sick for a long time. And she knew all along that the day was coming. Between you and me? I think she might even be looking forward to it.”